


Warning Signs

by relic_amaranth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gender-neutral Reader, Getting Together, M/M, Other, Romance-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 19:16:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13530831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relic_amaranth/pseuds/relic_amaranth
Summary: Castiel doesn’t admit to fear and neither do you. Until you meet each other.





	Warning Signs

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Noooot fluffy but also not quite angsty? Vague descriptions of violence. Very slight (very! slight) warning for my fellow emetophobes (spitting up, not vomiting, but still).
> 
> I wanted to write something Cas/Reader with S4-5 or S6 Castiel where he’s still kind of aloof and (in my mind) a little scary and… :gestures helplessly: this. I settled on S4-5. Not platonic but not romantic, not fluff but not angst, just somewhere in the middle. As you do. Also I was playing around with perspective so I apologize if it’s confusing. Cross-posted to Tumblr. On with the fic!

 

When you first meet Castiel, he has a presence, a power that makes your hair stand on end. He _looks_ harmless but you’ve been around long enough to know appearances mean nothing. He’s the kind of dangerous that makes your muscles tense.

When Castiel meets you, his eyes go immediately to the red-stained silver blade in your hand, and the matching blood on your person. The smell of sulfur is the only reason he doesn’t smite you on sight.

Dean, possibly purposefully oblivious, doesn’t appear to notice the two of you on edge. “Cas, this is–”

“Where did you get that?” Castiel almost snaps.

The sudden rush of power in the air makes you bite down on your tongue to keep from grinding your teeth, and you grip the weapon in question as tightly as you can. You take a deep breath when he doesn’t move to attack. “Demon. Why?” In your mind that fight had been terrifyingly close. The only way you got out alive, you suspect, is because of typical demon ego coupled with the fact that the demon was stupid enough to swing around something that could kill him.

To Castiel, those words cement you as a dangerous creature. A demon had somehow killed an angel. _You_ had somehow killed that demon. He should demand the return of his kin’s blade. He should forbid Sam and Dean from associating with you and keep only a very distant watch on your whereabouts.

He doesn’t. Dean is silent, keeping a careful eye on everyone as you and Castiel stare each other down and Sam, also mindful of the tension, explains to you about angels and the weapons they carry.

“I suppose you want this back, then?” you ask. Your desire to claim ownership of the most useful weapon you’ve ever had is at war with propriety and the feeling that he should have his dead sibling’s sword.

“Keep it,” Castiel says, surprising all of you. He included. He doesn’t show it, though, still not entirely attuned to his human skin. He reaches out with his grace to discern the blade’s former wielder. Sachael. He will mourn her in private, later. “It does my sister no good now. It’s better for it to be used to kill demons than to waste in abandonment.”

You nod to the side, trying to convey both acknowledgement and thanks as you slide the weapon back into its makeshift hilt. You don’t let your guard down, but you think, perhaps, this angel isn’t so bad.

Castiel is left with the feeling that he has given extra claws to a tiger, but he shakes it off. Despite that you now have an implement which _could_ theoretically kill him, you can’t. Not really. He has been a soldier in this war long before you came into being and he will continue to be one long after your physical body has rotted away. Still, he decides it would be prudent to keep an eye on you. Just in case.

 

You meet off and on, as time crawls on and different circumstances pull you together. He has his orders, his mission, and you are one of many hunters trying to keep the world together as forces far beyond you try to tear it apart.

He finds you, one day, in a bar, trying to drown your mind. The sense of loss emanating from you is almost as strong as the stench of alcohol swirling about you. Watching you now, he can’t decide if you are less dangerous, or more so. Your face is wet with sweat and tears, but your hand is near your–… _the_ blade, as though itching to use it. He stays back, just in case.

You see him as soon as he appears, of course– you’re not _that_ drunk– but you ignore him. Mostly. You keep an eye on him, not sure why he’s here; if he’s just waiting for you to let your guard down.

When you realize your hand is on the hilt of your angel blade you have a thought of blood and gore, images you’ve been trying to forget, and you spit up the shot you’ve just taken and barely gotten to swallow. The bartender kicks you out but as you’re leaving you note that you no longer see the tan coat and messy dark hair.

Buzzed and bemused, you wonder if you grossed him out.

 

“There are more effective ways to hold that.”

He should not be doing this. He has so much else to do, so much else to worry about, to think on. He should not be helping a human learn to wield an angel blade with even more deadly efficacy. Especially as you turn slowly and look at him as though he’s expected. Like he is not a massive being with more power than you can comprehend.

You’re sort of surprised to see him. If he wants to, he can kill you in an instant, and sometimes you get the feeling he’s tempted. So why he’s here, now, critiquing your form, is baffling to you. ‘What’ and ‘huh’ are battling to be first, so of course what comes out of your mouth is, “Hey Castiel. How’ve you been?”

He looks surprised. And, in that moment, human. It makes you smile. Then he grows cold and impossibly alien again. Still, you think of those widened eyes and raised brow, and so you remain more curious than frightened as he marches up to you.

He takes the blade and your hand, adjusting your fingers and the hilt until he hits his preferred grip. “This is easier,” he says. He moves behind you and you’re suddenly frozen as he puts a hand on your hip to still your body and uses his other hand to demonstrate a much smoother strike that, admittedly, you’re not paying full attention to. He is unbothered and, of course, _angel_ , but when you turn your face and come nose-to-nose with him, you both freeze. It feels like an eternity, standing there, sharing air and doing nothing at all.

His lips brush against yours and you gasp because you’re _sure_ you didn’t move, but in the next instant he’s gone and you feel ten times jumpier than you had during or even before your hunt. That angel is dangerous, you realize, but you can do nothing about it now. You turn to clean up.

 

Castiel has dealt with swaths of demons before. He dove into hell and returned with the soul of the Righteous Man. Even before that he has been a formidable opponent to any enemy he has faced, either alone or in formation.

A handful of demons in a building on earth should be no trouble. Would be, were there no sigils to contain him to this small space, and were Dean and Sam not helplessly unconscious behind him. The leader is blathering while Castiel looks around and considers his options. With the Winchesters right there, he cannot simply unleash his full power, but is it better to let the demons–

Suddenly an alarm blares and water rains from the ceiling. The demons scream and burn and you burst in, blade shining in the light before you shove it into the body nearest you, and again, and again. Castiel moves to action as well, catching and smiting the demons trying to escape their vessels, and between the two of you and the manufactured holy rain, the fight is over in minutes.

“You okay?” you ask, panting and doubled-over.

He isn’t going to fall for that. Your show of weakness is too convenient. He leans down to one of the bodies to gather some blood and stands up, smearing it to ruin the most troublesome ward. “I am– and was– just fine.”

“Oh, I know.” Your smile is not mocking– it’s agreeing. You point at Sam and Dean. “But how many times do I get to have the Winchesters owe me?”

He doesn’t know the answer but you don’t seem to need one. Seeing you, smiling, covered in the gore of your own kind and bearing your own wounds…

Humans are frightening, he thinks. He thinks it as he cleans up the office so all evidence of battle is gone. He thinks it as he takes the boys back to their motel room. He thinks it as he flies around the world trying not to think of anything at all.

 

He’s in your room when you’re getting ready for bed. You jump but don’t run, even as he storms up to you and grips your shoulders tightly in his hands. Your eyes, though– he sees it in your eyes, how wide they are. Feels it in your breath, how hard it hits his skin. Hears it in your heart, how quickly it beats.

“Are you afraid?” he asks lowly.

“Terrified,” you murmur.

You both tumble back onto the bed, locked and locking together, and for the first time that he can remember, he is too.


End file.
